


Stop Light

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Violence, Everyone Has Issues, Everything Hurts, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, M/M, Somehow they still love each other though, everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:01:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> "We always hurt the ones we love."</i> To this day, Bruce can't remember if it was his mother, or his father, that said those words to him.</p><p>Maybe if he could, he wouldn't say them to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixreal/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Under My Skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017593) by [phoenixreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixreal/pseuds/phoenixreal). 



Bruce Banner loves Tony Stark.

He loves the way Tony babbles when his mind is moving too fast to keep quiet; loves the way he can’t really talk without moving his hands; loves the way his eyes crinkle when he tries to read something far off because <i>he refuses to wear glasses, the stubborn bastard</i>; loves the way he mutters equations when Bruce presses him down into the mattress, eyes glazed with distant pleasure; loves the way his breaths puff softly against Bruce’s neck while they sleep, untroubled; loves the way he’s never scared.

Bruce Banner loves Tony Stark the way his father loved his mother.

Tony makes him angry, plucks at his nerves in actual unintentional ways, dances across what little self-control he manages to maintain. He’s never quiet when Bruce needs him to be, never sits still long enough to let a calm form. He flirts with everything and anything, touches the shoulders and backs of strangers without thought and with charming smiles. His eating is unhealthy, his actions are reckless, his drinking is dangerous, as if he doesn’t care enough about himself to try, as if he doesn’t care if he leaves Bruce behind. And he _apologizes._ Every time Bruce tries to talk about things, tries to sooth down his temper before he can snap, explain what it is that agitates him, Tony apologizes before he can even get a full sentence out. Quick, submissive, like he knows he’s done wrong, body tense and words wavered.

And it makes him _angry._

The first time he hurts Tony, it’s from grabbing his arms too hard – matching bruises of dark brown and purple wrapped across his biceps; there are no marks from how hard Bruce shook him, telling him to _shut up, just shut up, Tony!_. It was an accident – he remembers watching it from the movie screen of his eyes, not really connected to the movements of his hands. JARVIS is blocked from their room, the team doesn’t know; all that comes of it is Tony’s 22-hour stint in the workshop the next day, not even unusual. And when he comes back up, Bruce makes sure to have food ready for him, healthy food he thankfully doesn’t bulk at, and they spend the night in relative silence. Tony doesn’t apologize, and Bruce isn’t sure if he’s supposed to if Tony is pretending like nothing happened. So he whispers it against the Tony’s hair when the billionaire finally falls asleep against his chest, and stays awake. “We always hurt the ones we love,” he remembers his mother (or father. Or mother) so softly saying.

The second time he hurts Tony, months later, is much like the first, for much the same reason. Only this time Tony doesn’t hide away in the workshop, instead staying close, cracking jokes about his mannerisms that set Bruce off, even if he can’t exactly name what they are.

It happens again and again, first spanning between months and then between weeks. The bruises travel from his arms to his shoulders to the dip between his ribs and waist. They never talk about them and they never apologize; sex becomes less restrictive and more than a little rough. Bruce is releasing coils for the first time in years and it feels _good_. He can’t eat breakfast without feeling sick and Tony doesn’t eat it at all and no one notices and they keep doing it. _Bruce keeps doing it._

Sometimes, the Hulk stirs in the back of his mind at the spikes of his irritation, more confused than anything, because this is _Tony,_ why are they hurting _Tony?_ And every time Bruce shoves him back, shuts him down, curses the existence of the monster inside of himself and doesn’t think about what it means that the beast is questioning him, because that’s absurd. He’s not the monster.

It’s the night of the annual First Responders Fundraiser that his anger becomes fury and he _snaps._

Tony’s wrapped around Pepper Potts like she’s a high-class, paid-for whore, arm looped around her hips, thumb idly stroking the satin fabric of her dress where it clings to her hip. He doesn’t even look concerned about it, the bastard, acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world, holding onto her. Whispering into her ear, pulling her closer as she tucks her face against his neck to hide her laughter at whatever he’s said. Bruce is against the wall; he’s itchy from the eyes of the crowd the continuously seek him out, from the mutters between guests that he knows are about him. He’s uncomfortable, he wants out, and Tony is parading around completely at ease with no concern for him at all.

The second they’re in their room, the door shut, his fist flies. Not at Tony’s face, but straight into his stomach, so hard that the younger man falls to his knees with a huff of surprised air, _as if he hadn’t known he had asked for what was coming_. There are already words, but whether they are questions or excuses, Bruce doesn’t give him the chance, doesn’t want to. He hauls him back up by his arm and hits again, higher – there’s a crack of a rib that draws out a whimper and _why, Tony? Why do you make me do these things? Why do you make so angry? What’s wrong with you? Can’t you understand that I love you?_ , throws another that triggers a tiny cry. Bruce can’t see anything except Tony’s arm around Pepper, his hands on other people, his brilliant smiles and company given so freely to strangers when it’s all that Bruce wants, all that Tony had promised _to him._ His arm swings again, and again, his other hand holding, keeping Tony up, pushing him against a wall and keeping him there. He’s talking, telling Tony things that he can’t even hear as the soft skin and muscles beneath his knuckles and bones quake under his rage. He loves Tony. Loves him so much it hurts to think about, that keeps him up at night and desperate to hold onto because he cannot, _will not_ lose everything loving Tony has given him. _I won’t!_

And then, between swings, he hears it.

“I’m sorry! Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again. Please. Bruce, I love you. I’m sorry. I know I messed up, I know. I love you, I love you so much. I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so _sorry_.”

His fist stops moving, and he can see again.

See Tony before him, eyes red and wet, right shoulder hunched forward. He’s trembling, shuddering so badly the arm that Bruce is using to hold him up is shaking. He can hear the horrible, timidly shallow breaths the genius is drawing in under him, the small hitches of breath when he tries too deep, keeps up his fervent litany of apologies. His face is perfect, absolutely flawless, but Bruce knows that under his shirt there will be nothing but purple and red and broken _damage_ and Oh, God, _what did I do? How could I have done – Tony? Tony?_

“Bruce, _no_.” Tony’s pushing against him now, surprisingly strong despite the injuries Bruce has pounded into his bones. “Baby, don’t. I love you. It’s my fault. I did it. I’m so sorry. Bruce, please don’t. Don’t do this. I know you love me. Alright? _I know that you love me._ It’s okay. We’re okay. Bruce.”

Bruce moves his arm, Tony falls forward, Bruce drags him down – whichever way, they’re on the floor, Tony curled in Bruce’s arms in a way that obviously hurts but he won’t let them move, won’t pull away as he repeats over and over their love for each other, that they’re okay, that he’s _sorry_. It hurts; Bruce is disgusted with himself because he’s crying, too, so grateful that Tony holds him just as tightly, not thinking to realize the Hulk has been utterly silent the entire time.

Later, after he carries Tony carefully to bed, after he’s cleaned his face and changed his clothes, after he’s fetched a few bottles of water from the kitchen fridge and bid a still-awake Steve a friendly goodnight, after he’s wrapped Tony’s ribs and washed his face and tucked him beneath the sheets, after he’s curled up beside him and finally hushed his apologies enough to calm him down to sleep, Bruce brushes a kiss against his temple, his own breath shuddering as he whispers a quiet, unheard, “I love you”.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by phoenixreal's "Under My Skin" ... or rather, to the response phoenixreal left to my comment. "We always hurt the ones we love". Sucked my soul out of my heart for a minute. I had to write to that.
> 
> And you all should go read that. ;)


End file.
